"Both your phone lines were busy, so the store manager followed procedure and called me."

"I have a private direct line too."

"I know and so does Michaelson. Unfortunately, he panicked and couldn't find the phone number."

At 5:30 that night, after a day of raw tension and helpless waiting, Meredith finally received the phone call she'd been praying for. The New Orleans Bomb and Arson Squad had found no trace of explosives and were going to remove the barriers around the store. That was the good news. The bad news was that the store had lost an entire day's sales in the most important season of the year.

Limp with relief and exhaustion, Meredith notified Mark Braden of the news, then she packed a briefcase full of work and went home. Parker hadn't returned her call yet, but she knew he'd call her as soon as he received her message.

In her apartment she dumped her coat, gloves, and briefcase onto the chair, and walked over to the answering machine to check her messages, thinking Parker might have called, but the red light was not on. Mrs. Ellis had been there, though, and left a note beside the phone saying she'd done the marketing today instead of Wednesday because she had a doctor's appointment Wednesday morning.

The continued silence from Parker was making Meredith increasingly uneasy, and as she walked into the bedroom, she began to imagine him in a Swiss hospital, or, worse, soothing his wounded feelings with some other woman, dancing in some Geneva nightclub.... Stop it, just stop it! she warned herself. The mere proximity of Matthew Farrell was causing her to start expecting disaster to befall her at every turn. It was foolish, she knew, but given her past experiences with Matt, not entirely incomprehensible.

She'd taken her shower and was tucking a silk shirt into her slacks when the hard knocking on her door made her turn in surprise. Whoever it was had a pass key to get through the downstairs security door, which meant it had to be Mrs. Ellis, since Parker was in Switzerland. "Did you forget something, Mrs.—" she began as she opened her door, then she froze in surprise at the sight of Parker's grim face.

"I was wondering if you forgot something," he said curtly, "like the fact that you have a fiance?"

Overwhelmed with remorse that he'd actually flown home, Meredith flung herself into his arms, noting the way he hesitated before putting them around her. "I didn't forget," she said, kissing his rigid cheek. "I'm so sorry!" she said, pulling him into the apartment. She expected him to take off his coat, but all he did was study her with a cool, hesitant look. "What is it you're sorry about, Meredith?" he finally asked.

"For worrying you so much that you thought you needed to leave the conference and fly home! Didn't you get my message at your hotel this morning? I left word for you at ten-thirty our time"

At her answer, the rigidity left his face, but there was a haggard, drawn look about him that she'd never seen before. "No, I didn't. I'd like a drink," he said, shrugging out of his coat. "Anything you have is fine, just make it a stiff one."

Meredith nodded, but she hesitated, worriedly studying the deep lines etched into his handsome face by strain and fatigue. "I can't believe you flew home because you couldn't reach me."

"That is one of two reasons I flew home."

She tipped her head to the side. "What was the other reason?"

"Morton Simonson is going to file Chapter 11 tomorrow. I got the word in Geneva last night."

Meredith wasn't certain why he should feel the need to come home because an industrial paint manufacturer was going to file bankruptcy, and she said so as she turned to fix his drink.

Our bank has loaned them in excess of one hundred million," Parker said. "If they go belly-up, we'll lose most of that. Since I also seemed to be on the verge of losing my fiancee," he added, "I decided to fly home and see what I could do to salvage one or both."

Despite his attempt at flippancy, Meredith now understood the gravity of the Morton Simonson issue, and she felt even worse for adding to Parker's worry. "You were never on the verge of losing me," she said with an ache in her voice.

"Why the hell didn't you return my phone calls? Where were you? What's going on with Farrell? Lisa told me what you found out from Farrell's father. She said you drove to Indiana to see Farrell on Friday night so you could tell him the truth and get him to agree to a divorce."

"I did tell him the truth," Meredith said gently, handing him his drink, "and he's agreeable to a divorce. Stuart Whitmore and I are going to meet with Matt and his lawyers tomorrow."

He nodded, watching her in speculative silence. His next question was one she dreaded—and expected. "Were you with him all weekend?"

"Yes. He—he was too ill to listen to anything Friday night." Belatedly recalling that Parker didn't know Matt had bought the Houston property in retaliation for having his rezoning request denied, Meredith told him about it. Next she explained why she'd felt she needed to get Matt to agree to a truce before she told him about her miscarriage. Finished, she stared at her hands, consumed with guilt for what she hadn't told Parker, not certain if confessing it was a selfish way of unburdening herself or whether it was the morally and ethically correct thing to do. If the latter were the case, and she still felt that it was, this didn't seem like the right time to tell him—not when he'd already had one major blow with Morton Simonson.

She was still trying to decide, when Parker said, "Farrell must have been furious on Sunday when he realized your father had duped him about your miscarriage."

"No," Meredith said, thinking about the wrenching sorrow and regret on Matt's face. "He's probably angry with my father now, but he wasn't then. I started to cry when I told him about Elizabeth's funeral, and I think Matt was trying very hard not to cry. It wasn't a time for anger somehow."

The guilt she felt for what happened after that was in her eyes, and Parker saw it.

"No, I suppose it wasn't." He'd been sitting hunched slightly forward, his forearms braced on his legs, holding his glass between his knees, watching her. Now he jerked his gaze from her face and began idly rolling the glass in his palms, his jawline tightening. And in the endless moments of lengthening silence, Meredith knew—she knew he'd guessed that she had gone to bed with Matt.

"Parker," she said shakily, ready to confess, "if you're wondering whether Matt and I—"

"Don't tell me you went to bed with him, Meredith!" he bit out. "Lie to me if you have to, and then make me believe it, but don't tell me you slept with him. I couldn't stand it."